The Writers' Circle

Hi, I just started writing about 3 weeks ago, for the time being I have been dividing my time between developing the plot for my first novel and trying to find a writing style that suits me and any potential audience.

The second element is what I am needing some help with at the moment. I want to check the content of the snippet I have included below. How does it read, have I made the character and the scene believable, or am I way of the mark?

 

Edward Hall opened the car door, swinging out his leg, and then hauled himself on to the pavement in a single fluid movement, a feat that that would have been impossible without his current adrenaline level. What he was about to do had been planned in detail, 15 years of planning in total, and while there was still a long way to go, this was the start of the end game. If everything went well today then his devotion and sacrifices would have been justified.

He turned toward the boot, shutting the door behind him, the noise made him cringe, "Shit". Looking down, he took the few short steps quickly to the rear of his car. In trying not to draw attention to himself, he felt conscious that he may be doing just that. 

He juggled his keys around in his hand nervously, stepped down on to the road, and took half a step back as he opened the boot and allowed it to rise. He looked down at the majesty of the object in front of him, the adrenaline, excitement and pride that he felt making it impossible for him not to let go an involuntary smile. 

In front of him, was one of the most powerful objects that had ever existed, no other human on the planet new of its existence. Only he and the malevolence that existed within it new of it's potential, but only he knew of the suffering he'd been complicit in dealing out to get him here today. He chanted some occult words in his head  to provide protection before touching the rug.

He reached in to the boot for the rug, carefully lifting it out and putting it under his arm. The weight and texture of the rug brought flashes of intrusive and tormenting memories into his head, brutality, pleading, pain, screaming, terror, blood.... flooding his senses and making him lean back into the boot breathing heavily as he tried to recompose himself. 

Anticipating any moral reflection that could sway him from the task ahead, the rug had already started it's work on him, washing away the negative thoughts with a whispers in his head, as each second passed by so did any recollection of the negativity. He was back on the task in hand, the rug guiding his thoughts and actions, but unseen even to him.